Chapter 7; "And what were your conclusions?"
No one spoke for a few minutes, Lydia hanging her head, Watson biting his lip sympathetically, and Holmes glaring furiously at a cream cake, his eyes cold. Eventually the doctor spoke; "Weren't the men's clothes terribly… uncomfortable?"
Lydia uttered an abrupt humourless laugh, "Try wearing a corset, and then talk to me about clothes being uncomfortable!"
Suddenly Holmes rose, inadvertently knocking over a china cup as he did so. "I am afraid Miss," he drawled with icy coolness, "That I cannot comply with your request. It is simply my duty to inform the police. Tomorrow at eleven-thirty precisely I shall collect you and escort you to the station so you can be present for questioning!"
"Holmes! She could go to prison for impersonation!" gasped Watson, but an irate glare from Holmes silenced him.
"Good day Miss Ire!" the detective spat.
Holmes strode out of the room with in indecisive Doctor following him. Holmes didn't loose his rigid expression while he hailed a cab or indeed on the journey back to Baker Street. Watson had tried to reason with him, but received nothing but a curt; "I can't forgive her, she lied!" for his trouble. So they trundled on in silence.
Watson sighed, it was much later. The detective had uncharacteristically retired early, leaving the doctor to smoke pensively in solitary. For the hundredth time that hour he questioned Holmes's rage, was he angry because she had broken the law, she lied, her disguise had taken him in, or that he had actually enjoyed her company, the company of a woman? None of it made any sense to Watson; the detective had often forgiven people whose sins were far greater than Lydia's. This time it was Holmes who was being illogical. Watson chewed absently on the end of his pipe, forgetting to smoke. Perhaps, he thought optimistically to himself, it's just a bad mood, and tomorrow he will wake up with a better humour and a revised opinion.
Lydia wandered in a morbid fashion from room to room of the lodgings gazing unfocusedly at the little paintings and photos that covered the walls. The seemed to have lost their effervescence and happy memories. She began to contemplate what was to happen to her now; she would be collected in the morning by a man she had once thought of as a friend, perhaps even lov-. She cut the train of thought short and shunted the idea away. She wasn't going to think like that; it was far too dangerous. So they would arrive at Scotland Yard and he would fling the truthful accusations at her and she would have no choice but to confirm them! Being Sherlock Holmes, if she didn't he'd just find some way to prove it. Several ways in all probability. And then prison, a fine if she was lucky… for fraud? What other crimes could she be convicted of? Part of her didn't want to know. In despair she collapsed onto a sofa. Listlessly running her fingers through her perfectly styled hair. Then in a gesture of absolute hopelessness she plunged her face into her hands. Truly nothing was ever permanent.
Holmes tossed and turned defiantly gripping the sides of the blankets with his long slender fingers. He had gone to bed more than four hours ago, but he couldn't seep. All he could do was think about her, her and what she'd done. He had been so sure of Winters, who he was, that he… she had been his friend. The detective snorted in annoyance, perhaps she still was, just because her figure was slightly different than he had once thought didn't mean…. He groaned and mentally kicked himself, he couldn't, shouldn't change his original, his correct judgement! Amidst the hazy network of images and dreams that comes with fatigue he found himself picturing her face. Looking up at him eyes pleading… she was definitely captivating. So intelligent, witty, intellectual, kind, beautiful, faultless… NO! He bit his tongue hard to distract himself. He couldn't think like this it was far too dangerous! Moaning at nothing in particular he flipped his pillow over in a feeble attempt to get some sleep. Then he resolutely slammed his head down on it and snapped shut his eyes, trying valiantly all the while to shunt all thoughts from his mind.
Holmes; true to his word left for 27 Lanestreet Road at precisely eleven o'clock, allowing half an hour for the journey. He had left quietly, without telling Watson, who had temporarily stopped talking to him. He hailed a cab and nodding absent-mindedly to the driver he climbed in. Reluctantly he began to consider his up-coming task. It was going to be difficult, no doubt about that. His fingers ran agitatedly along the interior of the hansom, immersing himself in the high quality wood. Decisions were more easily avoided with distractions. At eleven twenty nine and fifty seconds Holmes dismounted and paid the driver. He leapt energetically up the front steps to the door, which he rapped upon sharply at eleven-thirty precisely. Lydia had been waiting for him in the hallway a sick feeling rising in her stomach. At the sound of his knock she jumped to her feet, and standing on one toe to keep herself from crying opened the door. The two just stared at each other for a few moments their eyes meeting, each trying to haphazard a guess as to the others thoughts. Holmes coughed discreetly, "Miss,… no I apologise, Winters, may I come in for a moment?"
Lydia was surprised, not least because he had called her by the name she had used as an inspector. However she concealed her interest with ease and answered in a level voice, "Of course although you seem to be in already!" Holmes smiled at her sardonic remark and stepped into her living room.
"I've been thinking, since yesterday." stumbled Holmes unsure how to act.
Lydia cocked an eyebrow, and struggling to keep her voice neutral asked the question her heart yearned to say but her mind feared the answer of; "And what were your conclusions?"
Holmes smiled genuinely, "That I was too hasty in my decision to reveal your gender to Scotland Yard, and…" he trailed of hoping that she had not noticed he had been going to say something else. No such luck.
"And what?" She prompted the twitching corners of her lips betraying her excitement.
The detective rose from his chair and looked down at her, his embarrassment suddenly dispersing; "And, Lydia Winters, it seems I shall have to revise my entire opinion of your sex, as apparently I have fallen for you! I love you!" he choked, striving for the right words to explain himself better, but somehow it just wasn't necessary. As their lips met in a complete surrender, and as he drew her close, in that moment as they leant against each other all of the pain, the hurt, and the loneliness just floated away leaving nothing but sheer joy and each others arms! Still gripping onto her shoulders Holmes stood back, his deep, endless blue eyes wide with incredulity that another could make him so whole. Slowly he fell to his knees and looked up at her; "Perhaps it brings me down by doing this, but will you marry me?"
Her eyes lit up in amazement and she fell down beside him; "Perhaps it brings me down by assenting, but by god I wouldn't have it any other way!"
EpilogueWatson sat inhis old, worn chair gazing into the fire. Lydia and Holmes were out. The former had left her job as inspector and now lived with the detective on Baker Street, working on case, eating meals, and conducting experiments with him. They were to be married next month and neither looked forward to it with a qualm or doubt. On the whole the doctor was happy with the situation; he was content to live alone at his own house until he found another like Mary. He was happy for Holmes, he had a companion who could rival his own intelligence and draw his attention from the syringe to engage in witty, philosophical conversations and debates. Watson's head lolled to one side and he began to doze off when suddenly feet resounded upon the stairs and a huge, breathless man burst into the room; "GOD HELP ME! Are you Mr Holmes? I'm at my wits end!"
The End (Of the story not my wits!)